by Anne Weale
The questionnaire she had answered described her as unmarried, unpartnered, and with no family or other personal responsibilities which might interfere with her concentration on the job. Any woman of thirty-two, without a husband or a boyfriend, had to be sublimating.
Perhaps, for some women, it wasn’t as hard as for most men. They seemed to vary a good deal in the strength of their libidos. Among those he’d known intimately, some had been disappointingly inhibited, others as ravenous as he was. It was hard to guess what Nicole Dawson might be like when, metaphorically speaking, she let her hair down.
When the video about Karangarh ended, it left Nicole with the feeling that, for a few minutes, a magic carpet had carried her to a fairytale world of sunlight, fabulous ancient architecture, and incredibly vibrant colours worn by women who walked like queens and men with black eyes and quick smiles.
‘What a wonderful place!’ she exclaimed. ‘What’s your work there, Dr Strathallen? Are you in charge of the hospital?’ It crossed her mind that he might be in London for some medical conference and have been asked by the Prince to deputise for him in the choice of a designer.
He got up to switch off the TV and close the doors of the cabinet. ‘The hospital is staffed by Indian doctors. I’m an anthropologist...studying Rajasthan’s nomadic tribes. The Maharaja allows me to use the palace as my base.’
‘Have you been out there long?’
He glanced at the watch on his lean wrist. She had already noticed the beautiful shape of his hands, with their long backs and longer fingers, the nails immaculately clean. ‘We haven’t much time, Ms Dawson. I necd to know more about you. You’ll find out more about me if you are selected to join the Prince’s staff. He will decide who’s appointed. He’s already seen the preliminary reports. I shall email my reports to him tonight. You won’t be kept waiting long.’
His snubbing reply to her question, which it wouldn’t have taken ten seconds for him to answer, and something in his demeanour made her certain he had already written her off. There was no rapport between them, no meeting of minds.
Which made it all the more annoying that she found him the most physically appealing man she had encountered since... Her mind shied away from the conclusion of that thought.
‘What else do you want to know?’ she said coldly, knowing that the interview had gone sour and she might as well go home now.
Nicole hadn’t told her family she had applied for another job. They thought she was settled where she was. Rosemary, her stepmother, would have been horrified if she knew Nicole wanted to move, even in England, let alone abroad. There had been no point in upsetting Rosemary until such a move was definite.
How the rest of the family would react—would have reacted—Nicole wasn’t sure. But it wasn’t going to arise. She felt in her bones that Dr Strathallen had disliked her, that any day now a letter would come informing her that another applicant had been appointed.
When her stepmother called her to the telephone, saying that a Dr Strathallen wanted to speak to her, Nicole was astonished that he should take the trouble to break the bad news by phone.
She took the receiver from Rosemary. ‘Nicole Dawson speaking.’
‘Good evening, Ms Dawson.’ His voice sounded even deeper and more resonant on the phone. ‘The Prince has read my reports and feels that you and one other candidate are equally well-suited to the post. He would like me to talk to you both again. I suggest that this time we have lunch at a restaurant. Can you manage Friday?’
Luckily Nicole had some time off owing to her from her present employer because she had worked through two weekends on an important and urgent order.
‘Friday would be fine,’ she said.
‘Good.’ He gave her the name and address of the restaurant. ‘We’ll meet there at twelve-thirty?’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’
Strathallen didn’t respond with the conventional ‘So shall r. Instead he said merely, ‘Until Friday,’ and rang off.
Nicole had scarcely had time to replace the receiver when Rosemary asked, ‘Who is Dr Strathallen?’
The second Mrs Dawson never hesitated to ask personal questions or to intrude into other people’s private lives. There was no way anyone living under the same roof with her could have a private life. She looked closely at every envelope that came through the letter box and had no compunction about reading other people’s postcards.
‘He’s an anthropologist,’ said Nicole. Knowing the next question would be ‘Where did you meet him?’ she was about to invent a white lie when her father intervened.
Mr Dawson, who was sitting by the fire, doing the crossword in his morning newspaper as he did every evening, looked up and said, ‘Strathllen...anthropology... that rings a bell. Has he written a book on the subject?’
‘I don’t know, Dad. I know very little about him. He’s looking for a designer and someone gave him my name.’
This was close to the truth but, she hoped, would avoid a cross-examination by her stepmother. Fortunately it was almost time for Rosemary’s favourite soap opera and her eagerness to learn the outcome of the dramatic climax at the end of the last instalment was stronger than her need to know about Nicole’s telephone caller. As Rosemary picked up the remote control, Nicole, who wasn’t a soap fan, said she had things to do upstairs.
‘I’ll say goodnight, Dad.’ She went over to kiss him.
‘Goodnight,. my dear. Sleep well.’
She suspected he knew she found Rosemary a trial, although Nicole had never confided her problems to him. When Rosemary had entered their lives, Nicole had welcomed her, knowing that a man still in his early fifties needed more than a daughter’s companionship.
It was only later, as Rosemary relaxed and allowed her true nature to show, that misgivings had set in. Her stepmother was not a bad woman, quite the reverse. It was her excessive goodness that was the problem She wanted the best for everyone and put herself out to achieve it for them. But what she thought best wasn’t always what they wanted.
Rosemary Dawson was a kind-hearted, wellintentioned control freak who refused to consider that her decisions and arrangements on behalf of her family, friends and acquaintances might sometimes be flawed or even completely disastrous.
‘Goodnight, Rosemary.’ Nicole managed to smile at her stepmother and forced herself to kiss the older woman’s upturned cheek.
Inwardly, she was close to the end of her tether. Somehow she had to escape from the stifling atmosphere in this household. Her father, she knew, was resigned to it He had married Rosemary during the long and desolate aftermath of his first wife’s death. He would abide by that commitment, no matter how severely it taxed his patience.
Sometimes it seemed to Nicole that he was no longer the same person she remembered from her childhood. Something in him had died with her mother. Even with Dan, his grandson, he was not the same carefree, lively personality he had once been.
Dan had tackled his homework as soon as he came back from school. Now, in the small bedroom next to hers, he was sitting in front of his computer. ‘Hi, Mum. Come and look at this.’
‘It’s almost logging-off time,’ Nicole said, as she picked up a stool and placed it next to his chair.
‘I know, but you must see this website. It’s brilliant!’
She rested an arm on his shoulders and looked at the screen. What she really wanted to do was to hug him tightly to her. But although she still kissed him goodnight, and Dan planted a kiss on her cheek before he got out of the car when she dropped him off at school, she took care not to be too demonstrative.
He was twelve now, on the verge of puberty when life started getting complicated...especially for a boy without a father. In looks, he took after her, with the same fair hair and hazel eyes. But the size of his hands and feet, and the way he was shooting up, indicated he was going to be a big man. It was her most fervent wish that, despite a bad start in life, he would also grow up to be a good man.
After takin
g her on a tour of the website, Dan closed down his PC and began getting ready for bed. At school, he was conscientious rather than clever. Team sports bored him. His overriding enthusiasm was for computers, an interest that Rosemary deplored but Nicole encouraged.
While he was in the bathroom, probably skimping his wash but giving his teeth a good brush because she had given him an electric toothbrush which kept going for two minutes, Nicole sat on the end of his bed. She wished she had had the luck, when her son was little, to meet a nice man who would have been a father to Dan and set him a good example. A grandfather wasn’t the same. Her father did his best, but he couldn’t do the things a man in his thirties would have done.
And it wasn’t only for Dan’s sake that she longed for a man in her life. She would have liked more children, a home of her own and someone to share her bed. From a personal perspective, her twenties had been as arid and empty as the Great Thar Desert. Now she was in her thirties and the few men she met were either married or had been through a painful divorce and weren’t going to make another commitment in a hurry. She had long since given up hoping that a knight in shining armour was going to materialise and whisk her off to the life of her dreams.
That just wasn’t going to happen. The only person who could make things better was herself, which was why she had answered the advertisement.
Walking from the Underground station nearest to her rendezvous with him, Nicole wondered what Dr Strathallen had written in his report on her. She now knew a bit more about him than she had at their first meeting.
Her father, who clipped newspaper articles on subjects that interested him, had unearthed a report of a lecture given by Dr Alexander Strathallen to the Royal Geographical Society a couple of years earlier. His subject had been the Rabari nomads whose traditional way of life was under threat. Probably the only reason the talk had been reported was because he had made some controversial statements about the decline in moral values in the west.
Nicole had also found out from a girlfriend who knew about such things that the restaurant where he was giving her lunch was exceedingly fashionable and tables had to be booked long in advance. Not wanting to arrive first, when she came to the street where it was and saw that it was located close to the corner, she continued along the main road, window-shopping until her watch showed twenty-nine minutes past twelve.
The restaurant had a large plate glass window allowing passers-by to see the interior. As Nicole approached the entrance, she recognised Alexander Strathallen’s hawk-like profile. He was seated on a sofa immediately inside the window and at right angles to it. But he wasn’t alone.
There were two people with him, a man and a woman. The woman was leaning towards him from the opposite sofa, talking vivaciously and then breaking off to sip from a flute of champagne.
Dismayed at the thought of being interrogated by three people, Nicole raised her hand to open the door, but had it opened for her by a friendly young man who welcomed her to the restaurant. Then a smiling girl appeared to take her coat and umbrella. Although it hadn’t rained so far, heavy showers were forecast for later. When, having handed over her things, Nicole turned towards Strathallen and his companions, she found he had already risen and was standing behind her.
‘Good afternoon.’ For the first time he smiled and offered his hand.
The smile transformed him from a somewhat forbidding personality into one of such charm that Nicole felt her insides do an involuntary flip. The feel of his long strong fingers closing over hers accentuated the reaction.
‘Good afternoon.’ She always shook hands firmly but now put all her strength into returning his clasp to avoid having her knuckles ground together. But his handshake wasn’t the crushing grip she expected. Obviously he modified it when greeting women.
Then, instead of introducing her to the others, he said to the hovering young man, ‘We’ll go straight in and have our drinks at the table.’
Apart from one young couple so casually dressed that Nicole thought they had to be from the pop music world, or showbiz, the restaurant was empty.
‘What would you like to drink?’ her host asked, when they were seated.
Nicole’s mind went totally blank. Perhaps it was the result of tension, followed by relief that the other people weren’t with him, plus the jolt of attraction, but all the right answers deserted her.
‘As we’ll be drinking wine, let’s stay with the grape, shall we?’ Strathallen. suggested. ‘Two glasses of champagne, please.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
When the young man had gone, Strathallen said, ‘I arrived early and got into conversation with a couple of Americans. Nice people, but I didn’t think you’d want to hear all the details of their itinerary. I hope coming to London again hasn’t caused any problems with your present employer.’
‘No, my working hours are fairly flexible. With all the people I’ve worked for since leaving college, I’ve always tried to give maximum input—never just the minimum required—and that’s paid dividends. They’ve been understanding when I wanted to go on courses or take an extra day off.’
‘What sort of courses have you been on?’
‘Oh...time management...computer graphics skills...that kind of thing.’
The champagne arrived and with it two large folders containing the menus.
‘To an enjoyable lunch,’ said Strathallen, raising his glass to her before tasting the pale golden wine. ‘Let’s decide what to eat and then we can concentrate on other things.’ He replaced the flute on the table and began to study the menu.
Nicole tried to match his concentration, but it was making a good second impression on the man beside her that mattered more to her than the specialities of a chef who, according to her friend, had already been awarded two Michelin stars and was said to be sure to gain the coveted third star before too long.
When the maître d‘hôtel came to explain, in a pronounced French accent, some of the choices to her, she was conscious that, although he was very good-looking and charming, he didn’t, for her, have the disturbing qualities of the darkly bronzed Scot beside her.
At least she presumed from his surname that Strathallen’s roots were in Scotland even if, like so many of his countrymen, he chose to spend his life elsewhere.
After their food and wine had been ordered, on impulse she said, ‘Does your wife like living in India, Dr Strathallen?’
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. There were no visible signs of his displeasure, but she couldn’t have felt it more strongly if he had glared at her. Perhaps he expected her to let him lead the conversation. Or perhaps he didn’t approve of being asked a personal question. For whatever reason, she sensed she had annoyed him.
‘I’m not married,’ he answered. And then: ‘My way of life and domesticity don’t mix. But why are you free of all attachments?’
The questionnaire she had filled in had required ‘divorced’ to be ticked if that was the applicant’s status. So he knew she had never been married. But searching as it had been, the inquisition hadn’t required her to state that she was a single parent. And she had no intention of revealing that fact to him now. Somehow she didn’t think he would be sympathetic. He might even consider that Dan’s existence disqualified her.
Some people wouldn’t understand how a loving mother could contemplate leaving her child, even though, hopefully, it wouldn’t be a long separation. Had Dan been younger, she wouldn’t have left him. But at this point in his life, the potential benefits outweighed the drawbacks. She would miss being with him a lot more than he would miss her.
Reminding herself that she hadn’t even got the job yet, and might never have it, Nicole said, ‘I loved someone when I was younger. Unfortunately it didn’t work out. Since then I’ve concentrated on my work. Perhaps I’ll meet someone else someday... but I’m not holding my breath,’ she tacked on lightly. ‘There are other things in life.’
‘Indeed there are—and food is one of
them,’ he added, as two more of the restaurant’s staff arrived at their table, the one in the rear holding a large silver tray from which the other took a dish and placed it in front of Nicole.
She had chosen scallops as her first course. They came arranged in a circle surrounding a column of chicory. Earlier, a basket of long pointed brown rolls had been brought. As she broke hers in half and helped herself to butter, Nicole realised that she was hungrier than she had expected to be.
Usually, stress killed her appetite, and what could be more stressful than knowing that her future and Dan’s depended on convincing Alexander Strathallen that she was the best person for the job?
CHAPTER TWO
FOR some minutes they ate in silence.
Strathallen had already finished his glass of champagne and started drinking the wine he had chosen to go with the meal. Nicole still had some champagne left and planned to go easy on the wine which, judging by her glimpse of the label when the wine waiter had displayed it, was several cuts above the plonk she drank on evenings with her friends.
She liked to relax with a glass of wine when she got home from work. But her father wasn’t allowed to drink for health reasons and Rosemary was one of those non-drinkers who disapproved of alcohol as vehemently as reformed smokers disapprove of cigarettes.
She was the kind of woman who, if Nicole had kept wine in the sideboard in the dining room, would have watched to see how much she was drinking. So Nicole kept a bottle of supermarket plonk in a cupboard in her bedroom-cum-studio. The cupboard was locked because she knew Rosemary went in there while she was out. Keeping the bottle out of sight made her feel uncomfortable, but it was preferable to having Rosemary making critical remarks. She made enough of those as it was.
Closing her mind to thoughts of her stepmother, Nicole said, ‘My father is interested in anthropology. He remembered a talk you gave to the Royal Geographical Society. Perhaps it wasn’t reported accurately, but it gave the impression that you don’t think much of the way the western world operates.’
